This is one of my longer pieces where I explore colours, light and words of wisdom.
On Christmas day I promised to write about my new fascination for stained glass windows. I am going to start with the beginning, taking you back to the point of origin where all passions ignite and spill forth, in John O’Donohue’s colourful words, as the ‘red weather of being’. [1] Paradoxically, or maybe not, my point of origin is nested in the penumbral light and hallowed darkness seeping through the first winter contemplations of the November issue.
In his book of blessings, having praised the risk of fire, John O’Donohue salutes the kindness and reverence of candlelight for looking into the heart. He also welcomes a searching of the mind that is “equal to the oblique crevices and corners where the mystery continues to dwell glimmering in fugitive light.” [2] Obliqueness is key to our deeper, intimate self-inquiry if we want to step out of outdated patterns and self-limiting belief systems. Like Phaethon eager to overcome his father, Helios, direct confrontations with the sun and usurpation of the sacred chariot lead to chaos and, eventually, to downfall. Should we seek to unveil the unseen path, the next phase of our philosophical questioning invites us to put the eye to the human experience at an unusual angle, one that captures the light in the oblique corners. In the slanted opening we might catch a glimpse of the circle, shimmering from the point of origin, from which all things emerge and return.
During the Advent season, I was intent on paying attention to the kindness of penumbral light and the mystery of oblique angles. On the third Advent Sunday, John and I went to the parish sister church in Gudhjem. We had two reasons for attending the service there. First, our parish priest was on a retreat and a wise pastor was standing in for her, one whose topical explorations through the lenses of philosophical theology always uplift and inspire me. The second reason was to admire the latest artefact returned to the church.
The church in Gudhjem was built in the late 19th century replacing the former St Anne Chapel where the fishing community worshipped. The old building was blasted to smithereens by enthusiastic engineers and all the treasures, deemed at the time of little value, were handed over to the Danish national museum where they lingered, discarded, in dusty rooms. It took decades of dedicated and obstinate persuasion to reclaim the artefacts and integrate them into the new church. The prize items comprise a gold-plated wooden altarpiece, a 15th century triptych celebrating the women of Christianity, fashioned in a workshop in Lübeck and a wooden pulpit with four coloured panels depicting the apostles. The last piece to be returned after years of haggling is a wooden canopy called the heaven. It hangs above the pulpit so that the priest can bring heaven down to earth as she or he preaches the gospels, the good news.
We sat on the left side of the church. A friend, born and bred in Gudhjem, told us that this was the better side during the winter months because, if we were lucky, the sun on the low horizon would pour through the windows and warm us up. And lo and behold, breaking through the heavy winter clouds, the sun did illuminate us during the whole service drawing a graceful arc across the wide lateral window.
In the polygonal apse, there are four small, stained glass windows, designed and presented to the church by Baltic Sea Glass, the world-renowned glassblowing workshop that thrives in the parish. The design of the windows is minimalist representing, in my mind, the four elements (fire, water, air, earth) in four colours (red, blue, pale yellow, green) using smooth, curved forms, or waves. After holy communion, I sat down looking at the gold-plated altarpiece and its esteemed women, listening to the inspiring music falling from the elevated organ pulpit. It is then that I saw how the stained glass windows reveal the mystery ‘glimmering in fugitive light’. The pale winter sun coursing through the windows was casting soft coloured hues on the wall at the back of the apse. The effect was mesmerising, an epiphany of sorts before its season.
Epiphany, in Greek, means ‘to bring to light’ or, more colloquially, to see the light. In the liturgical calendar, Epiphany is the culmination of Yuletide when the three kings arrive in Bethlehem. Revelations are not something that we should expect during Advent, or before the winter solstice as we wait for the birth of the light. Unless there is something more urgent calling us from beyond our immobile calendars, ceremonies and seasonal festivities.
This revelatory moment occurred at the beginning of the first series of my Holy Nights leading up to the winter solstice. In the spirit of radical simplification, my intention for this edition was to be lean and sober, both with words and illustrations. In previous iterations, I have always been astounded by the force of the creative flow ferrying intricate essays of self-examination and elaborate pictures to encapsulate the fleeting insights. Last year I was particularly prolix, almost to the point of nausea as I poured out an accumulation of frustrations, bitterness, anger and resentment at the injustice of life. Quite the rage party in its own way! A textbook case of egoic ramblings.
The dream material of the twelve holy nights is said to inform us about the blessings and challenges of the coming year, each night corresponding to a month of the astronomical calendar. Undeniably, the abundant harvest of the last edition did have a cathartic effect, bursting open festering wounds and unleashing pent up anger, but in the months that followed I found it difficult to work with the materials because they would often throw me back into the depths of past pain and suffering, the obsessions and compulsions hoarded by the strategic mind. This sustained my resolution to tenderly contain the flow and move towards the hope, peace, joy and love that characterise the four weeks of Advent.
I therefore decided to ration myself each day to a single A4 page to capture the dream material of the night with a few words on one side, mostly excerpts of poems, and an illustration on the other side. I devised my own prompts for each night, a few exquisitely calligraphed words left to rest on the bedside table as I entered the night. At first, the words were, indeed, lean and distilled to the essence. Unfortunately, the illustrations remained elaborate, full of details requiring hours of work. Not so easy to let go of former patterns of perfectionism and to quieten the drivenness of an over-active mind. I could see that the task I was imposing on myself, by default, was going to be exhausting. There was no way that I would be able to keep up this pace with its intense productivity over 24 days.
Gazing at the simplicity of the stained glass windows in Gudhjem church projecting enticing pools of colour of the wall behind the altar provided me with a fortuitous breakthrough. If I was to design a similar window, working with the luminosity and constraints of coloured glass, how would I express the poems and quotes from the Bible that surface in my nights as I trawl the darkness? This provided the perfect frame for looking at things glistening in the crevices and corners, in a fresh way, adopting an oblique stance.
From then on, each day, I drew plans for an ogive window, playing with the symbolism of colours that capture the elemental powers, the archetypal energies of the solar months, the circuitous pathways leading to the centre of the pattern, adding in familiar symbols and ciphers. I chose to work exclusively with round shapes, circles and waveforms, and to avoid sharp angles. What would it be to represent something using only circles and ovals? To explore time as a circle wrapped around eternity and absolute reality? My daily practice has set me firmly on an unseen path from which a new creative adventure is slowly emerging.
Not surprisingly, I am constantly seeing or hearing about stained glass windows. I see them in the houses around the church. I hear about the public vote launched in England to name the favourite cathedral stained glass window. I long to learn the craft of stained glass. I dream of joining a workshop in glass work.
For now I am content to dip into my colour box and pursue my designs. I imagine creative ways of reproducing them either in crochet or embroidery. Only these are art forms that I master and have been practising all my life. This is a compelling invitation to show up and be equal to the call and the circumstances. The next step is not about settling for what I already know how to do, arguing that I am too old to learn a new craft, caving into self-diminishment. I am being encouraged to follow the impulse, join a new intimate conversation, step into the unknown, admit my powerlessness and faithfully follow the golden thread sung and spun by my soul.
Time for me, therefore, to take that first step and, in David Whyte’s words, “to start with the first thing, close in, the step I don’t want to take”. [3]
References
[1] John O’Donohue, In Praise of Fire from Benedictus. A Book of Blessings (Bantam Press, 2007), p. 30
[2] John O’Donohue, For Light from Benedictus. A Book of Blessings (Bantam Press, 2007), p. 34
[3] David Whyte Start Close In from David Whyte: Essentials, (Many Rivers Press, 2020)